the day I met an absolute Jerk

Jennifer Carr

Im pretty sure youve all met jerks. Thats right people who are two-faced, freezing cold, sour-hearted, smooth-as-milk, etc. They are jerks. You get what I mean.

Well, it was the autumn of 2005 when I met my first jerk. Id read about jerks in books, the kind that make you want to hop through the pages and smack them up the head. It was at a barbeque, held by one of my fathers friends, who lived in the sort of house, where anyone could sneak up on you.

Thanks to blasted global warming or the blasted Gulf Stream, it was bucketing, so us motley bunch of grumbling, greasy-faced guests had to eat our burgers and kebabs inside. The house was completely foreign to me; all the guests were strangers and parties are never my thing. I just get bored and slope off to sit in a corner and wait for a parents voice to signal my freedom.

I did just that, flopping moodily on to a Dalmatian-patterned beanie-bag that hunched carelessly in the corner. The room I was in happened to be full of new couples. Bah, romance! I thought, daydreaming wistfully about my computer, with the beautiful Internet, I-Tunes, Word Processing, Movie Maker and a gorgeous array of Sims 2 games.

I was jerked unpleasantly from my happy mind games by the sound of heavy footsteps. The first thing that I thought of concerned the super-white carpet and I clicked my tongue disapprovingly. Such heavy footsteps could only be associated with large leather boots, perhaps crusted with mud. Charming.

I started playing with the sequins on my top. I hated that top. It was all sequins, sequins, sequins. It looked like the scaly belly of an alligator.

I sniffed, hoping that Id catch the scent of more chicken kebabs, still sizzling and spitting pathetically on the barbeque in this downpour. Instead, I choked at the smell of thick, sweet cologne. I couldnt help but splutter in disgust and pinch my nose. I was glad my mum wasnt around. She fidgets with embarrassment at my lack of tact.

I peered upwards with my watering eyes, wondering who had taken a bath in cologne. I rooted it back to a big man standing in the corner. I wanted to say, Hey, you! Are you trying to gas us!? but I knew that was rude, so I diverted myself by looking at what appeared to be his wife, a woman of forty-so with streaks of grey in her hair, tired little pouches of sleep under her eyes, lines webbing the corners of her mouth. They most certainly werent like the laughter lines I got around my eyes sometimes.

I then looked at Overpowering-Chloroform-Cologne guy. His belly was so big it was like hed stuffed a watermelon under his shirt. He had scratchy stubble all across his jaw and throat, white shocks of hair sticking straight up and bloodshot eyes. He was smoking a cigar. I hate any kind of smoking. I got it stamped into my head by my dad, who despises the stuff. He went mental when my brother pretended to smoke a cheesy Wotsit once.

I made an over-dramatic performance of glaring at the nebulas of smoke he exuded and haughtily moving to the other end of the room.

About half-an-hour and a bit of fresh air later, I was nibbling my fifth chicken kebab and had gotten cornered by some grandma who drabbled on about her husband who fought in occupied France, while I painfully nodded every now and then.

Smoky was chomping and chewing away, his mouth wide open, his hands greasier than the lasagne they give us for lunch at school. It turned my stomach and I pointedly looked away. His wife wasnt eating. I noticed she had a few missing teeth.

I blinked and looked at the woman a bit more closely. There was a thin scratch across her cheek and a raw-looking mark on her forearm. Her nose was a little bit disjointed and I spotted a puffy lip. And shed hidden a slightly purple eyelid behind a lock of her discoloured hair.

Then I looked at Monster Munch and his hands, ropy with veins, purple fingernails from hammer misses. With every movement they seemed to swell with power.

I swallowed my mouthful of chicken, which was a lot, and hurt my throat. Id gotten a flash of what Mum called womens intuition. It was quite a strange feeling, actually, just a single click! and I knew what was going on.

I didnt really know how to react, other than shaking my head, like they do in movies when someone finds out something and they dont want to believe that its true because its too awful to believe.

No blooming wonder his wife was so quiet and timid. Punches Dude was obviously in charge. With everything, it seemed. Even here, he was crabby with other guests, dissatisfied with the food, scornful of the splendid house.

I scowled. I had just met my first jerk.

I stood, wiped my mouth and marched towards him. The crowd parted like the Red Sea.

I stood in front of him, fists clenched. He stared up at me, hard as metal gaze. I didnt flinch.

May I help you? he asked, his voice sounding like a frog which is convinced its a whale.

I took a breath. You, sir, are a jerk, I said and then flounced off, into another room, ignoring the thunderstruck look on his face, an ocean of bemused eyes following me out. That was it.

My family still gets invited to those annual barbeques. Sometimes the Jerk is there, but I never see his wife anymore. Perhaps I did more harm than good. Ill never know.

Perhaps shes left him. Perhaps shes still wallowing away there.

But at the very least, I let the Jerk know that not everybody has to be scared of him.